by PivoineCorbeau 30th April 2020, 6:32 pm
Pivoine was not a farmer! If she was being honest, her body was far too delicate for that kind of work. She had slim wrists and a small build. But, there appeared to be no end of hurt elderly people in this foreign land with chores that needed done. And, apparently, guild mages were the ones who stepped up and took over those chores! Whatever, it was just sowing seeds. At least she didn’t have to plow any fields or do anything super heavy like that. Otherwise this wood have been just about impossible. It also didn’t help that she was stuck out in the early morning. The sun would become brutal towards noon, so there was no point in waiting around for that to happen.
She looked at the information that came with the seeds. Alright. Looks like eggplants were the main crop, with some tomatoes, potatoes, and greens rounding things out. Pivoine dragged a hoe across the planting area, diving up the space into partitions for each type of crop. She sneezed a few times, her uniform a little cold before she started working. Pivoine supposed she would probably warm up during the work, though.
Several hours into the planting, Pivoine was about ready to throw down the hoe, cry, and throw a giant fit. This was far harder than she had expected it to be! Every time she finally completed a row, it felt like the farm had grown several feet wider. And there was just no end to the seeds and seedlings that needed to get into the ground. She did contemplate that fit, gritting her teeth as she covered yet another row of potatoes in dirt. But, no. No no. She couldn’t. That would be most unlady-like conduct, and there was no way she would put herself into such a disgraceful position!
By the time she finished, the noon sun had just begun to creep into position. At that point, Pivoine was positive she wouldn’t be able to move the next morning, never mind do the drills that were popular at Dies Irae! She’d have to drag herself back to town with a walking stick and then straight to bed. If she tried taking a bath, there was a good chance that she’d just drown before finishing.
The woman let out a bitter laugh, surveying the field she toiled in for hours that day. It better be worth it to the old man, she mentally grumbled. Pivoine’s back felt like it was about to snap in half. Her arms and legs were all shaking. And her eyes were heavier than she thought she had ever remembered them being. But, it was a job, and it was done. Pivoine slung the Dies Irae jacket back over her shoulders, feeling a horrible chill creeping.
The old man bid Pivoine a happy farewell, waving to her as she dragged her own wretched body back down the road on a walking stick. Farming. Never, ever, ever again! Pivione vowed.
Wordcount: 500
